


The Laws Of Attraction: A Study In Pink

by Lady_J (Hey_Its_Jo)



Series: The Laws Of Attraction [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Detective, Mystery, Opposites Attract, Sherlock - Freeform, the girl next door - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hey_Its_Jo/pseuds/Lady_J
Summary: Leanna is the quiet, proper type, if not slightly O.C.D., and definitely not somebody Sherlock Holmes would bother with.  So, she's in for the adventure of her lifetime when she comes to live with her aunt, Martha Hudson.What will happen when the high-functioning sociopath neighbours with his complete opposite?  Can opposites really attract?
Relationships: SherlockxOC
Series: The Laws Of Attraction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046467
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

She ducked her head and pulled her coat more tightly about her. Not that she needed it, though. It was neither cold nor raining, but rather it was the large crowds and busy streets full of cars and lights and honking that prompted her to shield herself. She'd never been a sociable person and large amounts of people put her off. One of the many reasons why she'd only been to London a handful of times in her life.

But now she walked the new and unfamiliar streets, alone, with nothing but Google maps to lead her and a raincoat to protect her. She finally met her destination, a three story building which was renting out flats. She knocked with a crooked doorknocker, straightening it as she did so.

"Just a moment!" It was the muffled voice of a woman, coming from well inside. She stood in the sidewalk in wait, until she heard the banging of shoes coming down a flight of stairs and getting louder. The door opened, revealing a petite older woman with short dirty blond hair which she wore in curls. She appeared to be nice enough.

"Leanna, dear, welcome!" She pulled her into an embrace, "It's been ages since I've seen you — and look at you!" She pulled back, holding her at arm's length and examining her, "Not such a little girl any more. Do come in! Your things just arrived this morning. I put them back in the spare room. Well, don't just stand there, you'll catch a cold!"

She led her in. The inside was dated, and a little worn around the edges, but suitable; Leanna had never been the picky type. Actually, it held a sort of charm, in its own way, she decided upon further inspection.

"I've just got a couple upstairs. They'll be looking to rent the flat on the second floor. I'll only be a tic. Make yourself at home — you're room is just behind the kitchen. You can start unpacking, if you'd like. Or feel free to put on the kettle."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." She said quietly, politely.

"Oh, it's not a problem, dear. And you can call me Martha. Or even auntie, if it would suit you."

If there was one thing Leanna could say about her aunt, she was definitely enthusiastic. She began climbing the steep set of stairs and, out of curiosity or maybe lack of anything better to do, Leanna followed, using the wooden banister to pull herself along. She reached the second floor landing and located the room which Mrs. Hudson had entered, its door left ajar. She stood in the entrance, not wishing to be a bother. Mrs. Hudson was inside, along with two other men.

One was rather short in height, with a round face and light hair which he kept at a close cut. He also carried a cane and walked with a bit of a limp, she noticed. The other was tall and thin, which a mop of black curls and cold, blue eyes over his sharp cheekbones. He was dressed in all dark clothing — a suit which was covered by a long, tweed overcoat and a rather decorative scarf, also sporting a pair of gloves in black leather. Leanna folded her hands in front of her, comfortable to observe.

"Sherlock... the mess you've made!" Mrs. Hudson remarked, not without a hint of scorn. Leanna smirked.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," the man with the cane said as he eased himself into an armchair by the fireplace.

"Anything interesting?" 

_Oh, I'd like to know the answer to that,_ Leanna thought quietly to herself. This man seemed to have a commanding demeanor about him.

"I found your website — The Science of Deduction."

It was all very posh to Leanna.

"What did you think?" the tall one said pridefully, as if he expected his acquaintance to begin singing his praises. His expression soured when the answer took its time in coming.

"You said you can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes," he said, as if it should be obvious.

"Really?" Leanna asked in astonishment, immediately regretting it. Their attention was turned to her, now.

"Yes," he said again, pausing to look her over is such a way that made her feel exposed. "Which school was it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Judging by your age and the fact you moved to London — probably to pursue a career because you had things sent ahead, suggesting a more long-term situation — you've just graduated post-secondary, where you majored in music and minored in writing." He spoke fast and she stood, utterly baffled.

"Uh..." She suddenly had no recollection of her years in university. He continued on, despite her.

"I can tell by your mouth that you have a very toned embouchure — a woodwind instrument, but it's toned in the more particular style of a flute. And your right hand is playing the upper part to Johann Sebastian Bach's Minuet in D minor. Probably a nervous habit. And the way you talk betrays your singing, which is better that average; I expect you've had training.

"And the callouses on your hands — right handed, and you do a lot of writing. More than usual. And you didn't go to school here — your aunt, or more likely your great aunt, hasn't seen you since you were a child, so obviously you don't "pop in" for a visit, and you hate the city. I can see it in the way your standing — reserved, probably socially awkward —"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded again.

"— which means you're rather new here. You've probably only been to London on few occasions in your lifetime, as you try to avoid _people_."

"That... that was incredible." Her jaw was hanging nearly to her shoulders. She was to astounded to be offended by some of his deductions.

"Yes, I know. But you didn't answer my question.

"Oh, the... um... the University of Cardiff." She tried desperately to corral her thoughts.

"Waste of your money."

"Excuse me?"

"I suppose it's a decent school, but you could have done better, a smart girl like yourself."

"How d'you mean?"

"There's an inverse proportion between the size of the brain and the metaphorical size of the mouth. You barely speak, only speak when spoken to. Smarter than average, not the top of your class, though."

"I'm just... quiet..."

"Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson rescued her from furthering the conversation, "what do you think of these suicides, then? Three of them."

"Four," he corrected as he gazed out the window. A few moments later, Leanna jumped from the doorway like a skittish cat as a graying man came up the stairs.

"Where?" he said before the newcomer had a chance to say anything.

"Brixton. Lauriston Gardens."

"What's different about this one? You wouldn't come to me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did," he said with an air of mystery.

"Who's on forensics?" he asked, as if it were a life or death matter.

"Anderson," the newcomer said, and the tall one looked put out.

"Anderson won't work with me," he said the name with venom.

"Will you come?"

The new man who stood in Leanna's original location was sounding desperate. Sherlock, as they called him, sent the man ahead with the promise that he'd follow. The man thanked him and retreated down the stairs. As soon as he's left, Sherlock jumped about his clutter, doing what she assumed to be a happy dance.

"Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

Leanna was finding this quite hilarious, but for the sake of the situation and to avoid a great misunderstanding, she withheld her laughter. But still she laughed in her mind at the image of a young boy with black curls, asking for a good, cold-blooded murder as he sat on Santa's red, cloth knee.

Draping himself with the long coat and scarf which he's so carelessly strewn across the piles of stuff — there wasn't a better word for it — he then told Mrs. Hudson that he's be late and would need food before running to the streets, on his way to Lauriston Gardens. 'Rude' was the word she used to pin him, and he seemed, Leanna thought, to be running on rocket fuel.

"I'll get that tea..." her aunt said, hurrying into the kitchen. The caned man folded down the top of his newspaper, looking at Leanna over it.

"I'm John Watson." He introduced himself. They didn't bother to shake hands, but still she nodded in acknowledgment.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

She turned around so fast it made her dizzy. The tall one had come back, addressing John Watson. She looked again at the metal cane, his comment turning of a few light bulbs.

"Any good?"

"Very good." John Watson said this not without modesty, but honestly and pointedly.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." He spoke quietly, slowly approaching the former military recruit.

"Enough for a lifetime — far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes."

She snorted once, unable to hide her amusement any better. They both looked at her and Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of the kitchen.

"I've got an idea — you could take Leanna with you." Her face was bright with enthusiasm.

"What?" all three said at the same time."

"Well, you could let her tag along, show her the city. I can' think of a better way to do it."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm not a tour guide —"

"Oh, it's not a tour. Just introduce her to London. After all, it is good to know your neighbors."

"I already know everything I need to about her, and she'll only be a third wheel." 

_Third wheel?_ Leanna let her jaw drop as he called her this. 

"How can I work when it's 'bring your kid to work day?'"

"Sherlock, be nice!"

Mrs. Hudson kept him in line better than his own mother could have.

_Kid? I'm not a kid!_

"Go on then," Mrs. Hudson coaxed.

"I'm alright with it..." John said, and she was thankful for the vote of confidence. Sherlock stood, obviously wanting to argue as the corners of his mouth were twitching. He spun on his heel and held his hand to her, obviously annoyed. He introduced himself reluctantly.

"Sherlock Holmes."

She took his gloved hand and shook it. It was strong.

"English major," she blurted out, blushing deeply with embarrassment. "I, uh, majored in English and minored in music. My, um — Leanna Moore." 

She cringed. If there was way to blow your first impression to the hills, that was it. 

" _English major_... are you sure?" He peered at her through narrowed eyes. 

"Yeah..."

He left, and she and John followed, piling into the cab he'd hailed. It was growing dark as Sherlock gave the cabbie an address, and they drove away.

<><<>><>


	2. Chapter 2

Leanna sat uncomfortably in the back of the cab, with her hands pressed tightly in-between her knees. It was a while before anybody said anything, and it was she who broke the silence.

"So, who was that? The man who came over?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. But that's not what's on your mind, is it?" _How can you possibly know that when you're not even looking at me_? She wondered. He was, in fact, rather boredly looking out the window.

"No, it's just, I've never ridden in a cab before."

"What, never?" John looked at her with surprise while Sherlock remained focused on the window. She nodded at them. She'd been on a bus, even the tube, but she'd never needed a cab before now. They were again in silence, until Sherlock spoke to John.

"Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah — where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective..." John let the sentence trail off, and Sherlock finished it for him.

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective — only one in the world, because I invented the job."

Leanna nodded her appreciation of his title.

"What does that mean?" John asked, not following all the way.

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always," Leanna laughed silently in agreement with this fact, "they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs," John said, almost with an air of humor.

"When I met you yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq." He carried on their own conversation, leaving Leanna out.

"Yeah, how did you know?" John responded as if it should have been impossible to tell. Obviously not.

"I didn't know, I saw. You're haircut and the way you hold yourself says military, and your conversation as you entered the room says trained at Saint Bart's — so army doctor, obviously."

"Obviously," Leanna muttered to herself, mimicking the superior way in which he'd said it.

"Your face is tanned, but not above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You're limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. So it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances were traumatic — wounded in action, then."

He began summing up. "Wounded in action, sun tan — Afghanistan or Iraq."

Leanna thought about how freaking amazing his mind must be, and for the first time, she thought it might not be so bad to get to know him, even if he was rude.

"Then, there's your brother." Apparently, Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to stop himself. "Your phone is expensive — email enabled, MP3 player — and you're looking for a flat share. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat a luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next part's easy. You already know it."

"The engraving," John answered.

"'Harry Watson'," he quoted. "Clearly a family member who's given you his phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got extended family, at least none you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara?" he asked, very interested, but Leanna hadn't a clue.

"Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment, the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then six months later he's just given it away. If she left him, he would've kept it. People do. Sentiment." He referred to sentiment as if he was above it, looking down.

"No, he wanted rid of it — he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants to stay in touch, but you're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help. Says you've got problems with him. Maybe you like his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" 

John was completely astonished, making the detective smirk.

"Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edges. Every night he goes to plug it in, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, you never see a drunk man's without them. See, you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" John seemed shocked.

"Not an amateur, then," she muttered only loud enough for herself to hear.

"That was amazing," John said, to which Leanna silently agreed.

"You think so?" He was surprised at John's statement.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

Leanna smiled to herself, finding it funny, but she didn't understand why people couldn't appreciate what he could do; he was amazing. Not in every respect, but when it came to intellect, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be as good as it got. Within minutes they reached their destination, which was blocked off by police tape and squad cars.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked as they approached the scene.

"Harry and I didn't get along, never have. Harry and Clara split three months ago and they're getting a divorce, and Harry is a drinker," John summed, proving Sherlock's genius.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

He said it as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying.

"Harry is short for Harriet."

"Harry is your sister." He stopped in his tracks.

"Look, what exactly are we supposed to be doing here?" Leanna asked, to which Sherlock ignored.

"Sister!"

"Seriously, what are we doing here?" John backed her.

"There's always something..."

"Hello, freak."

A woman with slightly dark skin and rather large amount brown curls welcomed them. Although, it was hardly welcoming, and Leanna disliked her immediately.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?" Clearly, Sally and Sherlock had a bitter history.

"I was invited."

"Who's this?" She blocked John's way through the barrier as he tried to follow Sherlock.

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson." He introduced him to Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"How'd you get a colleague?" She, like many others, had little faith in Sherlock. "Did he follow you home?" She asked John. Sherlock let him in, himself, and Leanna tried to follow. But it was her turn to be denied.

"Wait, who's the other one?"

"I'm babysitting." _Babysitting!?_ "You can let her in. Mrs. Hudson would have my head if I pawned her off on you."

Leanna folded her arms and scowled as she crossed through the tape. They were greeted by a man who reminded her of a weasel, who spoke through his nose. Apparently, this was Anderson.

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear."

When they got inside, they met up with Lestrade, whom she recognized from the flat, and he and John zipped into jumpsuits matching the one on Anderson.

"Not you," Sherlock instructed Leanna, who made to take a jumpsuit for herself, "And don't touch anything." There was a warning in his voice that was almost threatening.

"Where are we?" he asked Lestrade.

"Upstairs." He led them up flight after flight, bringing them up to date on what they found.

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards." They entered the room, and the body of a woman was lying face down on the floor.

"That's a rather awful shade of pink..." Leanna muttered. The woman was dressed entirely in a vibrant shade of pink and it made Leanna's eyes sore. She stood off to one side to give them their space, more particularly Sherlock.

"Shut up." Sherlock told Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying. You too," he told Leanna, who ceased her chuckling.

Sherlock tentatively stepped forward and read the letters on the floor, R-A-C-H-E, which were visible even from where Leanna stood. He knelt and began to gently brush his fingers over the body. He even removed her ring.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked him, hopefully.

"Not much." It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to see that he was lying.

"She's German. Rache — it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us —" Anderson stood in the doorway.

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock said as he slammed the door on his face, completely focused on whatever was on his phone.

"So, she's German?"

"Of course not. But she's from out of town, though. Intending to stay in London for one night, before returning home to —" He pointed at Leanna. She thought about the woman on the floor, and why he might be pointing at her. Leanna noticed the woman's raincoat, and thought about her own.

"Cardiff," she said, understanding.

"Looks like you're found yourself the right girlfriend," Lestrade teased. Sherlock didn't hear.

"So far, so obvious."

"What about the message?" Lestrade asked.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John asked.

"Of the body."

John approached the woman on the floor, and Leanna held his cane as he brought himself down to her. He felt her neck and examined her hand.

"Asphyxiation. Probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

"You know what it was. You've read the papers." Sherlock stood, spilling any information he could get.

"Victim's in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London on night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.

"Suitcase?" The other three in the room, looked about, but there was nothing of the sort. Sherlock plowed on, ignoring them all.

"She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She had a string of lovers who never knew she was married."

"If you're just making this up —" Lestrade began.

"Her wedding ring — ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work. Look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely she had a string of them. Simple."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked, and this was probably Leanna's favorite bit. She smiled a small smile to herself in her corner.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not obvious to me..." John said, looking between the people in the room. Sherlock had an amazing comprehensive ability, but he did not comprehend the way other people think, or didn't think, for that matter.

"What's it like being in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. Her coat — it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too — she's had it turned up against the wind. Her umbrella is dry and unused, so she's been in strong winds. Too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a great distance, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours, because her coat hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within the radius of that travel time?"

"Cardiff." Leanna answered as he held his phone up for proof. "He's right. That's where I'm from — it was raining cats and dogs."

"Find out who Rachel is," Sherlock ordered.

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade asked, and Leanna looked at the letters again. R-A-C-H-E...L.

"Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"Daughter, maybe?" Leanna said, only halfheartedly, as she was probably far from right.

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade kept asking questions.

"Back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a suitcase behind her with her right hand. You don't get those splash marks any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes conscious, could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There was no case," Lestrade informed him.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case."

As Lestrade said this, Sherlock left the room, shouting down the stairs for anyone who might have picked up a suitcase. Still nothing. He stopped and mused.

"They take the poison themselves. Chew, swallow the pill themselves. There are clear signs even you lot can't miss. It's murder. All of them, murder." She noticed as he said this he was smiling. "They're not suicides, they're serial killings. We've got a serial killer. I love those. Always something to look forward to."

"How can you say that?"

"Her case! Where is her case? Did she eat it?" He asked sarcastically. "Someone else was here and they took her case." He suddenly got slow, as if he was making connections. "So he must have driven her here. Forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have left it at the hotel." John observed.

"She never made it. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She would never leave the hotel with her hair looking — oh."

He put his hands in the air, obviously catching a drift the other weren't on.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake. Houston, we have a mistake! Find Rachel!"

"What mistake?" Lestrade yelled after him as he ran out of the building.

"Pink!" was all he yelled back before running off, completely riled.

She and John were left to their own devices, and they took a slower pace leaving. John returned the jumpsuit.

"He's gone."

Donovan didn't sound surprised in the slightest as she told them this upon their arrival at her post by the police tape, "He just took off. He does that. Probably not coming back."

"Well, he's a rubbish babysitter," Leanna said, and she and John both laughed. She liked John. He was nice.

"Do you know where we could get a cab?" he asked Donovan.

"Try the main road. But you're not his friend." She said as she held the tape up for them. "He doesn't have friends. Bit of advice — stay away from that guy. You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He gets off on it, and do you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. We'll be standing 'round a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. He's a psychopath. They get bored —"

"Hey," Leanna interrupted, "the world will do you no favors by insulting it. And what Sherlock Holmes does, psychopath or not, is amazing. If you're just jealous that he does your job better than you, that's your problem. Not his."

And with that, she grabbed John's arm and they left, off to get a cab back to Baker Street. As they did, a telephone booth began to ring. Not abnormal, so they ignored it. It stopped ringing as they walked away.

<><<>><>


	3. Chapter 3

"Taxi!" John yelled for a second time, and still he gained no response.

"Tough luck. I suppose that's how it works in the city. You'll get the next one, Dr. Watson."

"That's what you said about that one. But you're right — you've got to have a blow horn and a flashing sign that says _'pick me up.'_ Getting a taxi is murder." They laughed, and although she was mostly repelled by people, she found herself oddly comfortable with this man.

"So, you just met him yesterday, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah. A friend of mine introduced us. But then..." He let his sentence trail purposefully, for effect.

"I know what you mean, and I only met him this aft'! He seems to just know everything about you with one look, and all I know about him is that he's crazy."

John laughed at her statement, and Leanna was pleasing herself with her sudden conversational skills.

"In the good way or the not so good way?" John asked, referring to Sherlock's craziness.

"I haven't decided yet."

They passed a shop and the phone inside rang. Such an ordinary occurrence wouldn't normally have sparked her interest, but for some reason it had, and she stopped and turned, watching. A young man, who was likely employed there, reached out his arm to answer it, but it silenced itself before he could, and she watched him shrug the matter off as he walked away.

Turning back to the street, she noticed John had been watching, as well. At least she wasn't the only paranoid one. They kept walking, Leanna relaxing her usual brisk pace to accommodate John's limp, but even despite this he made rather good time. She admired him for that. They came upon an average telephone booth, painted red, with glass windows, and obviously a telephone inside. As they approached it, it began to ring, as well. Silently, they unanimously ruled out coincidence. John made for the booth door.

"I probably wouldn't, if I were you." Leanna warned. He stepped inside, and she listened to half a conversation as he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?... Who's this? Who's speaking?... Yeah, I see it..." He looked up at something on top of a building, outside the phone booth. She tried to follow his sight line; brick, poles, security camera, wiring, the list went on.

"What are you looking at?" 

He ignored her.

"Mmhm... How are you doing this?..." He looked in two other locations. An expensive-looking black car pulled to the side of the road by the booth, and a man wearing a black suit and tie stepped out, opening the back door. John hung up the receiver and stepped out.

"Are you seriously going with them?" She asked, grabbing hold of his arm.

"I don't have very much of a choice, now, do I?" He made for the car, and Leanna followed.

"What are you doing?" John asked when he realized.

"Well, I'm going with you."

"He only wanted me. I can't let you go."

"And I can't let you go alone. Safety in number, and stuff like that." And without further objection, he climbed in first and she followed so that she was sandwiched between him and a woman who seemed connected to her phone. John attempted what seemed to Leanna like a go at flirting. When they finally reached their final destination, they were instructed out of the car.

They stepped out into a dingy warehouse, packed with industrial shelves, crates and other such equipment. The whole place was damp and poorly ventilated, making it stuffy and humid, and she could smell nothing but wooden crating. There was a man, middle aged who wore what looked like a very expensive suit, stood behind a chair, leaning on an umbrella like John's cane. He offered John a seat, using his first name.

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could have just phoned me. On my phone." He was more than a little annoyed.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete, hence this place." He gestured to their surroundings with his umbrella. "And I see you've brought a friend." He smiled at Leanna, making her remarkably uncomfortable. Not that she had been comfortable before. He took out a small pocketbook and read from it.

"Leanna Catherine Moore, moved to London today from Cardiff. And you've already met Sherlock. Poor girl."

He again offered John a seat, to which he denied.

"You don't seem very afraid." The man cocked an eyebrow.

"You don't seem very frightening." This was true. He had the air of an office man — not very intimidating. He laughed.

"Yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think."

"I think that you'll find that there's not much a difference between bravery and selflessness," Leanna told him, defensively. She was ignored, like many other times this day.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one," John answered him. "I barely know him. I just met him yesterday."

"And since then you've moved in with him and are solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?" John was becoming annoyed.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not a friend."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?"

"Two," Leanna cut in. He may be nasty to her, but she wasn't going to let him be insulted by this man.

"I'm the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having — an enemy. In his mind. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank goodness you're above all that." Leanna laughed outwardly, prompting a nasty look from their abductor. John's phone gave a ding, and he checked it, putting it back in his pocket.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I may be wrong, but I think that's none of your business." If one thing was for certain, Leanna loved John's humor.

"It could be. If you do move into," He looked at the pocketbook again, "221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

So, he was bribing them.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?" That was a better question.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" He asked again.

"I worry about him. Constantly." He said this with a sinister sarcasm. "I would, however, prefer that my concern go unmentioned. We have a — difficult relationship."

John's mobile dinged again.

"No," John said plainly.

"You're very loyal, very quickly." The stranger was amused.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested.

"' _Trust issues_ ,' it says here." Again he referred to his handy, leather bound pocketbook. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people? You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

Thinking of the John that Leanna had met, she found this hard to believe.

"Are we done?" John was becoming impatient with all this.

"You tell me."

John turned and limped away to the car which was still there with its headlights glaring. Leanna followed, catching the man's eye with a skeptical gaze as she looked over her shoulder.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But I can see by your left hand that that's not going to happen." Apparently he wasn't finished with them yet. John turned around.

"Show me," he asked, and John held up his left hand. The man approached it, reaching out with his own but John pulled away. He gave in and let him examine it.

"Remarkable. Most people blunder about hits city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already. You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service. Fire her — she's got it the wrong way 'round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." She couldn't help but look down at his hand. "You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it."

He leaned in and whispered his next sentence to him.

"Welcome back."

And with that, he walked away, swinging his umbrella 'round. He didn't stop, rather he yelled across the distance as he left.

"And welcome to London, Miss. Moore."

John's phone chimed a third time. The woman from the car came to tell them she was to take them home, and John gave her the address as they walked towards the vehicle. Leanna was once again subject to being flirted over top of as they returned to Baker Street, making one stop off along the way.

They returned to 221B, and Mrs. Hudson called her greeting from the kitchen. Unconsciously, Leanna followed John up the stairs, not realizing until she was already in his flat. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his hands pressed together. Not wanting to disturb him, she decided to make herself useful and got to work making a pot of tea, partaking in the conversation from the kitchen. Although, Leanna's version of joining in a conversation was listening as the others conversed.

"What are you doing?" John asked his flatmate.

"Nicotine patch — helps me think."

"Three patches?"

"It was a three patch problem."

Leanna chuckled silently.

"You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."

That must have been what the texts in the warehouse were about.

"Oh, yes. Could I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" She couldn't help but realize his confusion and annoyance over the sudden importance of a mobile.

"Don't want to use mine — always a chance the number will be recognized."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone..."

"I tried shouting. She didn't hear."

"I was the other side of London!"

"It was no hurry."

From the sound of it, John handed him his phone as she placed two cups on a tray.

"So, what's this about the case?"

"Her case..."

"Her case?"

"Yes, her suitcase. The murderer took her suitcase — first big mistake."

"So?"

"It's no use. There's no other way. We'll have to risk it..." he mumbled to himself. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text."

"You brought me here to send a text?"

Leanna shook her head as she smirked, looking for cream and sugar. Takes the phone, just to give it back.

"Text. Yes. The number on my desk."

There was a moment of silence, until Sherlock asked what was wrong.

"Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?" He sounded as surprised as Leanna had felt all day. John clarified, which seemed to make a lot more sense to Sherlock.

"An enemy."

"Oh. Which one?"

"Your arch enemy, according to him. Do people have arch enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes," Leanna said as she walked in, out of the kitchen and set a tray atop the clearest spot she could find. "After phoning us down the street and abducting us. You didn't have cream, just milk," She told him as she placed the tea tray down.

"Strange... why would he abduct _you_? You're of little consequence," he said to his neighbour. His comment stung, but she was getting used to it. "Did you take it?" He asked John, no longer interested in the other person in the room.

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met." And there went Leanna's cushy office assumption. "And not my problem right now."

John continued with the number, and Sherlock instructed him on what to type.

"Jennifer Wilson, wasn't that the dead woman?" he said, looking at whose the number was.

"Yes. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?" Sherlock Holmes was anything but a patient man.

"Hang on!"

"These words exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come." The mobile beeped as he typed the words.

"You blacked out?"

"What? No... no! Type it and send it. Quickly."

He got up from his position on the sofa and jumped straight over the coffee table. He walked over to the small, round table, at which Leanna sat with the tea. He picked up a small, pink suitcase and opened it.

"That's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously."

There was a pause as John looked at Sherlock, suspicion behind his eye,

"Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her," he said sarcastically, making it known to the two individuals who were blankly staring at him.

"I never said you did..."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send, and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Logical doesn't always mean correct," Leanna mentioned.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" John asked him.

"Now and then, yes."

He seemed to enjoy what he just said, and pulled himself up so that he sat on the back of the chair.

"How did you get this?" John asked as he sat in his own chair.

"By looking. The killer must've driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident of it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, especially a man, which is statistically more likely. So, obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he realized he had it. It wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car, five minutes from Lauriston Gardens; anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour."

"You got all that because you knew the case would be pink?"

Leanna rested her head in her hand, once again appreciating his genius as he talked to his flatmate.

"Why didn't I think of it?" John pondered aloud.

"Because you're an idiot. No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."

It was true, what had John said. When one first heard Sherlock Holmes, they'd think he was mentally unstable — which Leanna was still not sure of — or they'd think he was a proficient liar. But after listening awhile, they'd see that the things he said were sound, clever and completely obvious, leaving them to wonder how they could've possibly not seen it for themselves.

"Now look. Do you see what's missing?" Sherlock pointed at the girly luggage bag.

"Well," Leanna interrupted, leaning forward. She could tell that she'd already put Sherlock out. "You had John send a text to Jennifer Wilson's phone. You wouldn't have if it was there."

He was silent awhile before responding.

"As much as it pains me to say this, good observation."

"Maybe she left it at home?" John suggested.

"She has a string of lovers. She never leaves her phone at home. The question is, where is it now?

"She could have lost it..." John was trying to think his way through.

"Yes, or..."

"Or the murderer — you think the murderer still has the phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Did I just text a murderer?" John was clearly rattled, although, that was probably the sanest moment of this day. As if on some cue, the mobile started ringing.

"A few hours after his last victim, and he receives a text that could only be from her. If somebody just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer would panic." He slammed the top of Jennifer's case shut. He began pulling himself into his jacket.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There's no time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" John asked.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

Alarms in Leanna's brain went off.

"So, I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well what?" John asked, as if he was supposed to have known.

"You could just sit here and watch telly."

"What? You want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention. So... problem?"

"Yeah — Sergeant Donovan," John said, and Leanna recalled the lady from the crime scene, who had treated him so nastily. "She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

"And I said dangerous and here you are."

John got up with aid of his cane. He stopped in the doorway and turned to Leanna.

"You coming? You could just sit there and watch telly."

He mimicked Sherlock, and they both laughed.

"What? You want me?"

"Nope!" Sherlock yelled from the corridor.

"I'm inviting her!" John yelled back, and turned to her again. "I'm inviting you."

She grabbed her jacket and left after him, closing the door behind her. They walked from Baker Street this time, instead of hailing a cab. Leanna matched Sherlock's quick clip perfectly.

<><<>><>


	4. Chapter 4

The three of them walked briskly down the street. Sherlock Holmes, a tall man, easily out-paced John, who had to use a cane. But unfortunately for Sherlock, Leanna was a fast walker. She knew that following close behind him would annoy him, and Leanna wasn't one to engage in such nonsense, but she still found herself matching his pace, just to get on his nerves. 

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Northumberland Street. Five minutes' walk from here."

"You think he'd be stupid enough to go there?"

"No, I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. Always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause — at long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

"Which is why we're here," she muttered to John.

"This is the hunting ground. Right here, in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"I don't know. Who?"

"I haven't the faintest. Hungry?" They pitched sideways into a small café, and a man held the door for them. Sherlock removed his coat and sat at a table at the front, by the large window, and John did so too, letting his cane rest upon the edge of the booth seating. Leanna followed him.

"No," Sherlock stopped her before she had a chance to sit down, "sit there." He instructed to sit at the table a few feet behind theirs.

"How come?" It was John who asked the detective.

"Because she puts me off." 

Leanna scowled and dropped herself in the chair at the specified table.

"Sherlock, she's right there!" He whisper-yelled at him for insulting her to her face, but still his massive brain didn't seem to understand.

"Yes, of course she is, John, that's the problem!"

"I'm so sorry about him." He apologized on Sherlock's behalf to the girl sitting at the adjacent table. She just shrugged — you win some, you lose some. John redirected himself at Sherlock again.

"You know, she defended you to Donovan earlier."

"Really?"

He spoke like he didn't quite care what he was saying.

"Yeah. And she's been nothing but nice to you since you met her."

"Exactly. I don't like nice. Waste of time. And her obsessive compulsions sets me on edge."

"It's only slight..." Leanna muttered her defense, yet still John heard.

"You're O.C.D? Really?" It was John's turn to be surprised with her, and his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"Of course she is John — look at her!" Leanna caught herself straightening her cutlery as he gestured her way. "John, sit down." Sherlock ordered, obviously annoyed, "Twenty two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell. He'd need to be mad."

"He's killed four people."

He gave him a look that said _obviously he's mad_. A waiter came up and greeted Sherlock as if he'd known him for ages.

"Sherlock! Anything you want off the menu, free! On the house for you and your date."

"I'm not his date." John was quick to make that clear.

"This man got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced, "Three years ago I proved to Lestrade that at the time of the time of the particularly vicious murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."

"He cleared my name," Angelo said.

"I cleared it a bit."

"If it weren't for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison." The corners of Leanna's mouth twitched upward at this, even though this Sherlock was rude, his blunt nature made her laugh. Angelo left and brought them back a candle — more romantic, he'd said, and John looked put-out. For some reason or another, she found her mind wondering that if she'd sat with them, would she be his date?

"People don't have arch enemies," John said out of the blue.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life, there are no arch enemies. It doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" He sounded distracted as his eyes were held, fixated on 22 Northumberland Street. "Sounds a bit dull. What do real people have, then, in their real lives?"

"Friends. People they like. People they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"As I said... dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area. Look outside. Taxi. No one getting in, no one getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?" he asked as if they were supposed to have the answer.

Sherlock reached for his coat, putting it on as he breezed out the restaurant door. John followed, dropping his fork and knife on his plate with a clank and put his own jacket on. Leanna's chair nearly tipped backward as she shot up, hurrying to follow as well. The two flatmates and their neighbor watched — the man in the back seat of the cab turning his head so he was looking in their direction. The car's motor roared to life and the lights turned on as it pulled away from the curb and began driving off. Sherlock burst our sprinting, vaulting over a car as it hit him, horn blaring. John again apologized for him as his two companions followed.

"I've got the cab number!" John told him.

"Good for you."

He clearly didn't care. He quoted road signs with his eyes squeezed shut, and began running again, John and Leanna apologizing to all the pedestrians he plowed over. Instead of following the road, they ducked into a building, climbing to the roof. Sherlock jumped from the roof to the one on the next building.

"Oh, you're joking," Leanna whined. She had passionately hated P.E. They reached another roof, one with a wider span between it and its neighbor's. Trying not to imagine falling and bashing her brains out of her ears, she kept stride and threw herself, not looking down. She cried out with pride as the next roof slammed against the sole of her flats — not exactly trainers. They climbed down and ran through damp, back alleys. At the end of one, a cab rolled by, only in view for a fraction of a second. They turned down busy shopping streets, doing a zig-zag across the country's capital. Finally, they ran out from one last corner and Sherlock nearly slammed square into the murderer's cab."

"Police! Open up!" he instructed, authoritatively. It seemed as it police was some sort of a magic word. Surprisingly, he pulled a police badge from his inner coat pocket. He pulled open the back door. Upon looking at the brown-haired, middle aged man who sat there, he seemed to know that this was not their guy.

"No... teeth, tan, what? Californian? L.A, Santa Monaco. Just arrived."

"How could you possibly know that?" John asked, while the stranger sat baffled, as one usually does upon meeting Sherlock Holmes.

"The luggage. Probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Are you guys the police?" he replied in a very American accent. Leanna felt a twinge of humor, as she sarcastically thought that they had not in fact stopped them in the middle of the street, saying police... open up.

"Yeah," Sherlock replied casually, still a little winded as he flashed the badge at him again. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah."

"Welcome to London."

And with that, he slammed the door shut again and backed off to let it on its way.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," John said, and Leanna couldn't help but note the disappointment in his voice.

"Basically," Sherlock responded.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer."

"Wrong country, good alibi. Where'd you get this?" John took the badge from him. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. I pick-pocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one; I've got plenty at the flat."

John looked down at the object in his hands again, smiling and beginning to laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing, just... welcome to London."

Leanna laughed along with them. The man they had just harassed seemed to be pointing a true officer of the law in their direction.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked.

"Ready when you are."

They took off down the street again, John allowing her to go ahead of him. They got back to Baker Street and Leanna deflated into the staircase as Sherlock and John collapsed against the wall.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John said between gasps of air.

"And you invaded Afghanistan."

Everyone laughed.

"Made me wish I'd tried harder in gym class." She leaned back with her hands on the staircase.

"Well you're a bloody good jumper," John complimented. The man beside him looked like he wanted to make another rude remark, but bit his tongue. Could it be, Leanna thought amusedly, that Sherlock Holmes couldn't think of any to say to her?

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" John asked.

"They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So, what were we doing there?"

"Just passing the time. And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You," he said pointedly. "Mrs. Hudson, John will take the room upstairs," he called to the back of the bottom flat that Leanna's aunt inhabited.

"Says who?"

"Says the man at the door."

As if he had some sort of psychic ability, there was a knocking at the front door. John answered it, revealing Angelo from the restaurant, carrying a cane that obviously didn't belong to him.

"Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this."

John took the cane, looking back at a smiling Sherlock. He thanked Angelo before coming back in. Leanna's aunt appeared from the back where she herself lived, looking frazzled and panicked.

"Sherlock, what have you done? Upstairs —" she directed him.

"OUCH!" Leanna yelped in pain as Sherlock flew up the steep steps to his flat, squashing her hand beneath his shoe as he passed. It may have been a mere accident, but she wouldn't have been surprised of it had owned purpose.

She followed John, carrying his metal cane, who followed Sherlock to the second floor flat. Opening the door, they saw Lestrade, sitting in Sherlock's armchair.

"What are you doing?"

"I knew you would find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't break into my flat!" Sherlock was more than a little upset.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call all this, then?" 

He gestured around himself to all the people rifling through his belongings.

"It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?" John said, in humored disbelief. Sherlock turned his back, muttering to John who continued on, obviously oblivious.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational'."

"John, you'll probably want to shut up now," he insisted.

"But come on," John defended, and Sherlock's eyes bore into him. "No." John couldn't believe what he presumed his flatmate was confessing.

"What?"

_"You?"_

"Oh, shut up!" he told him, before again addressing Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog." 

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade said, seemingly pleased as Sherlock's frustration intensified. The wiry man stepped out from behind the cupboard door, waving a gloved hand in a smug sort of way.

"Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered," he said, and Sally Donovan came out of the kitchen, holding a glass jar.

"Are these human eyes? They were in the microwave!"

"Oh, yeah," Leanna joked, "I was going to make a nice soup out of them. I always make extra, if you want to stay for dinner."

She was pleased with the horrified look Sally gave her. John laughed silently.

"You can start helping us properly, and I'll stand them down," Lestrade offered, but it did nothing to tempt Sherlock.

"This is childish." He was fuming.

"They're dealing with a child," Leanna muttered under her breath.

"I am clean! I don't even smoke." He showed them the nicotine patches on his as he rolled up his right sleeve.

"So let's work together. We found Rachel — Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Sherlock spoke the name to himself, not understanding.

"Why would she write her daughter's name?"

The others who were tearing his flat apart were appalled by this, thinking him heartless, but Leanna understood him.

"Well, it's normal to think about your loved ones as you die, I suppose. But scratching the name into the floor? It couldn't have been a thought — it could be a message," said Leanna. She was surprised with her own insightfulness, letting it fuel her with an emboldening satisfaction.

"I didn't ask your opinion." Sherlock immediately shut down her momentary pride.

"Never mind that — we found the case! According to someone, the murderer has the case. And we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath," Anderson pointed out.

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath. Do your research. I'm going to need to speak with Rachel," he instructed the detective inspector.

"Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter fourteen years ago," Lestrade explained. Sherlock stepped back, baffled, as if it couldn't be true.

"No, that's not... why? What did you say? Leanna, what did you just say? No, shut up. You said she didn't think about it, she scratched it — it was indeed a message!"

For the first time since arriving at Baker Street, he smiled at her.

"Jennifer Wilson was clever — she was trying to tell us something, but what?" As he wracked his over-large brain, Mrs. Hudson came up, interrupting his spiel.

"Sherlock, you taxi is here!"

"Shut up! Don't move, don't breathe! I'm trying to think!" he snapped, pacing frantically, hands through his black curls.

"What about your taxi?" she asked, ever so innocently, simply trying to be helpful, but Sherlock shouted at her, too, and she fled down the stairs like a frightened cat.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Leanna yelled, even louder than he had, squaring her shoulders as she came up to him. She only met his chin, but her anger made her about two feet taller. "I have put up with your flak all day, but I will not let you bully my aunt! That woman has been nothing but gracious and kind to you — Lord knows you don't deserve it. And she deserves your respect. How dare you yell at her!?" She stopped to catch her breath, and realized that the make-shift drug squad was looking at her with wide eyes, and John's jaw hung open. She found her composure again.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to fix your mess."

She turned heavily and strut down the stairs from his flat, pulsing with adrenaline and hormones. She found Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove."

"I'd suggest chamomile after that," Leanna said. They exchanged smiles.

"Oh, I'm quite alright, thank you, dear."

Leanna joined her at the small kitchen table.

"What about you?" her aunt asked, "Did I just hear you yelling at Sherlock just now?"

Leanna smiled, dipping her head shyly. It wasn't in her nature to be assertive. Mrs. Hudson tended to the kettle.

"Would you like a cup, sweetheart?"

"Sure, if you're making."

As she pulled two mugs from the overhead cabinets, Leanna turned her head and, in her peripheral vision, she caught sight of 221B's front entrance. She thought of the cab that would be waiting just past it, for Sherlock Holmes.

"But," she gave voice to her thoughts, "he didn't order a cab."

She was mumbling unconsciously.

"What's that, love?"

"Oh... nothing."

She stood from her seat and walked to the kitchen entrance, leaning on the door frame as she thought her way through.

_Of course_ , she thought as it dawned on her like the sun, _Sherlock said — he'd have driven her there. Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? It was the cabbie. Oh, that's perfect_! She took her coat from the coat rack next to the door, pulling in so it covered her body. She pushed the front door open.

"Leah, where are you —"

Leanna closed the door, not ignoring her aunt and landlady, but simply not hearing her. Her mind was geared on a single track. She had found the lead, now she took it.

<><<>><>


	5. Chapter 5

She stood stiff legged, crossed arms holding her jacket closed against the nippy, night air. At first, she stared at the taxi, and then its driver stepped out. He headed 'round the car and took his time in joining her on the side walk.

"Where to, miss?" he asked, staring at her coolly, arms crossed similarly to hers.

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Oh, so you worked it out. Good girl."

"You know, for a man who must be a genius, it was stupid for you to come here. The police are right upstairs."

"By all means, go and get them. I'm not going to stop you. And I'll come quietly. Or..."

He dropped his sentence off, leaving Leanna at the cliff's edge. She picked it up.

"Or..."

"Or you could get in the cab."

He slanted his head back an inch, toward the black car.

"We'll go for a nice drive, and then I'm going to have a little talk with you."

"Talk how?"

"There's only one way to find out. Turn me in, and you'll never know."

"I'm not interested in games. I'm here to apprehend a murderer." She said, defiantly.

"I'm not a murderer, miss. I talk to them, and they kill themselves." He was defiant back to her. 

"Four people, dead, because of you. I'm pretty sure that's the definition of murder."

"But you'll still come with me."

"You don't know that," she defended.

"You want to show off, for him. Impress the great Sherlock Holmes."

"Never crossed my mind."

That was true, and it was only now that she realized that she may have wanted to consult with the consulting detective _before_ going up against a serial murderer.

Nevertheless, the cabbie held the door for her as she slipped inside on the back seat. She clicked her buckle as he turned the engine on, and Leanna gave a final glance at the second floor window, where stood the shadowy figure of the detective. Then, the car pulled away.

Thinking as fast as she could, Leanna fumbled through a pocket of her coat, discretely, as not to alert the driver. She slipped from that pocket her mobile phone, silenced it, and then began dialing Mrs. Hudson's number. She hadn't gotten a chance to add John, and she didn't think Sherlock would give her his number if she payed him for it. Now, it was all up to Leanna's timing. She allowed a few seconds for her aunt to pick up.

Until now, the ride had been silent, but she broke that silence, speaking in very choice words.

"This is all quite brilliant. I'm sure Sherlock Holmes would like to speak with you."

She only hoped Mrs. Hudson picked up on the cue and put Sherlock on. She had to allow another moment to pass, giving Sherlock time to answer.

"Who would've thought it? The cabbie, all along. We even stopped your cab. Questioned the passenger, but we didn't even think of the driver," she said, remembering now the incident from earlier.

"Clever, isn't it?"

Leanna looked out the window, watching the streets passing. They came up on a red light, giving Leanna a chance to read the name of the street.

"West on Baxter? Where does that take us? I'm new to the area." 

"Whereabouts from?"

"I'm hardly going to say, am I?"

"Fair point."

He chuckled under his breath. West on Baxter; she'd given them directions. I was only up to them to follow.

"That man earlier, the American. You should know you saved his life. Once you stopped us, I knew I couldn't do it, or it'd lead you straight to me."

"You'd think that four would be enough, but a fifth? When does it end?"

"For you, not long. I've got a new fifth victim now."

"Three guesses who?"

They both laughed a little at her humour. It was a shame that he was a serial killer — he seemed like a nice man. Finally, they pulled over in front of a school. Out the window, Leanna read the name for Sherlock.

"Roland-Kerr Further Education Centre."

"That's the good thing about being a cabbie. You always know a good, quite spot for a murder."

He got our and came around, opening her door.

"What if I don't want to go?"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that now, miss."

Out of his jacket pocket he pulled a gun, pointing it at her head above her eyes. She stared down its barrel.

"That's a very persuasive gun, sir."

She glanced to her mobile. Slowly, she scooted across the seat and swung her legs out of the car, standing on the sidewalk. She closed the door behind her and followed the cabbie in. They didn't use the front entrance; rather he held the door of a side door for her as he led her in and up a flight of stairs. Down the corridor, they entered a room, half lit, with long rows of tables and chairs.

"Please, have a seat."

He chivalrously pulled out a chair for her. She stiffly lowered herself into a chair as he relaxed into his. She sat with her weight forward, her hands folded and resting on the table in front of her. Across that table, they gazed at each other levelly.

"Here's how this works."

She watched his arm as it bent, reaching into his pocket. He removed from it a clear phial and placed it on the table, halfway between the two of them. Inside was a single pill.

"You want me to take it," she guessed.

"That's up to you."

"What else?"

She knew, obviously, that there was more to this.

"This."

He reached into his other pocket and removed a second pill, identical in every respect to the first.

"One's the bad bottle, one's the good bottle."

"And I have to choose between them. A fifty-fifty chance to walk out."

"Not chance. I've played four times, and I haven't lost. That's not chance, it's chess."

"Not chess, psychology."

"You're fun, you are. Most of the time, the others just whimpered and cried. But not you; I can actually talk with you, because you're clever."

"Not particularly, no."

"But here's the best part — whatever bottle you leave, I'll take."

He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and smirked — he'd just changed the whole dynamic of the game. It was no longer the simple psychology of a victim; it was the intricate one of a genius. He reached forward now, and pushed one of the phials toward her. It was the first one he'd put down.

"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? Pick your poison."

Leanna's eyes flitted between the two bottles. She knew nothing, nor did she have anything to go on. The clock ticked on, a good ten minutes slipping away. During this time, neither of them spoke nor moved. Leanna tried to think her way through, the way Sherlock would have, but her brain kept drawing blanks. There was simply not enough information.

"You do take your time," the cabbie finally spoke, and to Leanna's ear, he sounded slightly miffed.

"You should see me play proper chess."

"Come to any conclusions?"

"Give me a moment."

"I've given you several, but what's a few more?"

"What I'm wondering is," she leaned forward on her elbows now, "what's stopping me from walking out? I could choose not to play the game. I could just walk away."

Again, he took the gun from his jacket and pointed it in her direction.

"No one's taken this option yet."

"Oh, that's an option? In that case, I'll take the gun."

"Really?"

"Well, if I have to die, the gun is probably quicker and less painful. The lesser of two evils."

"Are you sure?" He had a teasing look on his face.

"I am, but you're not." Leanna teased him right back

"How do you mean?" she had the power now, and she relished it.

"You wouldn't shoot me, because then it becomes murder. Cold-blooded, sticky murder that's traceable right back to you."

"You want the gun."

"I do."

The click startled her, causing her to blink surprisedly. But instead of a bullet, a flame shot out the end — a small flame, like from a lighter. The gun was a bluff, and Leanna laughed out loud.

"Time is up." The cabbie, a little humiliated, cut her laughter short. "Make you choice."

"Okay, let's see." Her voice trailed off as her brain created an imaginary poison bottle and an imaginary dud bottle. One after the other, she picked them up with her hands.

"What are you doing?" he asked, looking at her empty grasp.

"Role playing."

She put her hands in her pockets with the imaginary bottles. She removed her right hand- the poison bottle, and looked at it. A smile spread across her mouth as the wheels in her brain turned. She looked at the cabbie. She opened her mouth to speak, but the next voice she heard wasn't hers.

"You have shaving foam behind your left ear."

Sherlock Holmes stepped into view, hanging up his mobile. Of course, he'd heard the whole conversation, as she'd intended. He slowly walked forward, putting his mobile in the pocket of his dark jacket.

"Leanna, are you alright?"

"I haven't laid a finger on her, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie defended himself.

"Why don't we let her decide that?"

"I'm fine," she assured the detective. He pulled up a chair, sitting at the end of the table between them, making a triangle; psychotic detective, psychotic murderer, and Leanna.

"So," Sherlock said, looking intently at the man across from Leanna, "it was the cabbie all along. How fascinating."

"No one ever notices the lowly cab driver. It's quite perfect, isn't it?"

"But why murder those people? What's that about?"

"You mean you haven't got it figured?"

"You have shaving foam behind your left ear," he said again, and this time he elaborated. "Nobody's pointed it out to you. Obviously you live on your own — there's no one to tell you."

Leanna sat back, marveling at his abilities. They were almost like a superpower.

"And I took a look through your cab, in through the window. There's a photograph of children, but the children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she's still be there. The photograph is old, but the frame is new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts."

For a moment, Leanna's heart felt pity for the man.

"But there's more." _Of course there is_ , she thought as Sherlock continued. "Your clothes — recently laundered, but everything is at least three years old. Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead?" he summed, seeming a bit confused. Leanna now looked from him to the cabbie, whose face had grown solemn. They were close to the truth, then, and Sherlock read that truth on his solemn face.

"Ah... three years ago. Is that when they told you you're a dead man walking?"

"So are you," the cabbie said. So there it was, then. Leanna's brain relaxed as this revelation set in. It certainly explained a thing or two. She sat back, her lips parted in a wordless _oh_.

"You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

"Aneurysm. Right in here." He tapped a finger on his head. What Leanna didn't understand is why the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward.

"So, because you're dying, you killed four people?" Leanna asked, her head tilted to the side.

"I've outlived four people."

"Four people who deserved to live."

She felt an acid anger bubble slowly in the pit of her stomach.

"No, there's something else, Sherlock brushed her off. "Somehow this is about your children."

"Oh, you think you're all clever," the cabbie said, leaning back comfortably. "You seem to know all about me, but what about you? I've been on your website, you know. Brilliant stuff. But I've also been warned about you, Mr. Holmes."

"Me? Who would warn you about me?"

"Someone who's noticed. A sort of fan."

"How does this involve your kids?" Leanna asked him, dragging the conversation back on track.

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs. But," he said, a glint in his eye, "I have a sponsor. For every life I take, money goes to my kids."

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

This seemed to disgust even Sherlock Holmes, who, perhaps after all, had a moral compass. Who would have guessed?

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" Leanna answered Sherlock's question with a question of her own, casting him a glance.

"Now, you see, I like this one. She gets it." The cabbie smiled. "Mr. Holmes, I think you've found your soulmate."

"Preposterous." He gave him a nasty look, and Leanna tried not to feel offended. "Who is this fan?"

"There's a name nobody says, and I'm not going to say it either. Now, enough chatter — time to choose."

Sherlock stood and paced about in a circle, swinging his arms loosely. He turned 'round.

"Leanna, what do you think?"

"Me?" She looked between the two men who anticipated her response, baffled that at this, the crucial moment, Sherlock had decided to trust her. Both looked at her intently. "Well..." She drew in a breath before diving head into it.

"Two bottles — one that kills you, one that doesn't. Only one of these bottles is important. Which one would that be? The poison." she answered her own question as she gained momentum.

"The other one you could put in someone's tea and they'd never know the difference. The poison, however, that's the ace. The game changer. Consciously and subconsciously, that poison is predominant — you always want to know where it is, and you never want to lose it because it's the most important. A game like this, and you can't make mistakes.

"So you take out the first bottle. It's the poison because you need it in play and out of your pocket. You put the poison in front of your victim. The second bottle you take out is nothing, a dud to mess with the victim. Now, you do this all precisely, because you know how people think. You're victim is in peril, they panic, they can't think straight, they choose the bottle closest to them because they can't think otherwise. They take what was given to them because their frazzled minds can't handle the choice, so why choose? They take the poison, you walk away."

"But?" Sherlock furthered her.

"But it could be a bluff, or a double bluff. Or, he could just be lying."

Sherlock took two steps towards the table and reached out, swiping the bottle from in front of the cabbie, who in turn removed the pill from the bottle in front of Leanna.

"Shall we?" the cabbie tempted.

"You don't have to," Leanna countered him.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do, a man like you. So clever."

"Sherlock, he's baiting you," she cautioned, standing slowly from her chair.

"But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

The cabbie kept reeling him in, and Sherlock held the pill up to the light, examining it.

"You've already proven it, Sherlock. You've got him, let's go." 

Leanna walked forward and made to snatch the pill, but instead she caught only his arm as he pushed her aside.

"You'll do anything, anything at all to stop being bored."

"Sherlock, stop it! It's not worth it. What's the point of being clever if you're dead?"

Neither man afforded her their attention, and inch by inch his pill approached his mouth.

"You're not bored now, are you?"

The pill was a mere breath's width away from his lips.

Leanna let out a scream and nearly jumped out of her shoes as a gun shot rang out, smashing the glass of the window. Immediately, the cabbie fell, landing on his back, a pool thick and red seeping out from under him. Despite his attempt to murder them, Leanna rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him. There was no stopping the bleeding, so all she could do was grasp his hand, making shushing sounds as he struggled to breathe. Sherlock jumped over to the window, looking through the bullet hole for a murderer who wasn't there. He came back over and loomed over the two of them on the floor, holding up his un-taken pill.

"Was I right?" That's all he cared about. "I was, wasn't I?"

The dying cab driver didn't respond. Sherlock threw the pill in his face.

"Sherlock..." She knew it shouldn't, but his lack of compassion was a little astounding. If not compassion, he could at least have pity on an old, dying man.

"Okay, tell me this. You're sponsor, who was it?" He tried a different angle. "I want a name."

"No," he choked.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock said, calmly, but threateningly.

"Give me a name." The man shook his head and Sherlock pressed his foot over the wound. "A name! Now!"

"Sherlock, for the love of humanity, stop it!" Leanna near screamed, yet he pressed harder.

"Moriarty!!"

The cabbie let out his final, strangled cry before his body went limp on the floor. Leanna gave his hand a final squeeze. They sat in silence a while longer, both a little winded.

<><<>><>

Leanna pulled the orange blanket tighter around her shoulders as police came and went from the education centre. The area had been taped off, and lights flashed everywhere as sirens blared. Leanna slowly walked over to one of the ambulances, where a man with dark curls sat. A paramedic put the same blanket around him as well.

"Why do I have this blanket? They keep putting this blanket around me," he mused as she approached.

"You know, if you keep it on they'll leave you alone." 

Leanna sat on his right. For a while, neither of them spoke. They watched the police chasing their tales around the crime scene.

"Are you," Sherlock cleared his throat, "are you alright?"

He said it uncomfortably, awkwardly, as if he'd rather not be saying it at all. But Leanna appreciated the effort, however forced.

"Yeah, I'm fine, thank you for asking. I was beginning to think you didn't care."

She heard him breathe in deeply

"I'm realizing now that I may have said some things about you that were... inaccurate."

"Oh, really?"

She was surprised. All the deductions he'd made about her had pretty much summed her up.

"Usually, I can know everything I'll ever need to about a person at first glance, and my first impression of you was... overall, negative." Leanna laughed silently at his insult. "But now I know that, in this situation, I was wrong."

He said _'wrong'_ as if he'd never said the word before, but Leanna knew that this was probably the closest thing to an apology he'd ever give her.

"There's more to you than I could have deduced."

"Not really. You basically hit the nail over the head."

"Oh, don't be modest, modest people annoy me. You were brilliant in there."

"Nah —"

"Yes, you were. You kept calm and thought your way through. And calling me — that was quite clever. You are quite clever."

"I just use what _little_ I.Q I do have properly."

"That's more than half the people here can say." They laughed together, just a little. 

"Hey, I can get your skull back from Mrs. Hudson for you, if you'd like," Leanna offered her neighbour. Before could respond, Detective Inspector Lestrade came up to them.

"So, the shooter? No sign?" Sherlock asked.

"Cleared off before we got here."

Both of them looked a little disappointed.

"A guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose," Lestrade observed. "One of them could have been following him, but we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock smirked.

"Here we go," Leanna muttered to herself.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance with that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot we're looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man, probably with a history of military service..." He looked off as his speech fell away. Leanna followed his sight-line, her eyes finding John Watson, who was waiting behind the tape. "...and nerves of steel..."

It began to become clear what he was saying, and the truth dawned on Leanna.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me," Sherlock said quickly.

"Sorry?" Lestrade was baffled — Sherlock Holmes was a man who refused to be ignored.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking."

He began to walk off and Leanna followed, tossing the blanket into the ambulance. Lestrade followed them desperately.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asked as they walked away.

"I just need to talk about the rent.

"I've still got questions!"

"What now? I'm in shock, look, I've got a blanket."

Leanna chuckled. Put a blanket on him and the man becomes useless.

"And I've just caught you a serial killer... more or less."

"Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Lestrade reluctantly released his consulting detective. Sherlock tossed his blanket aside.

"Sergeant Donovan has just been explaining everything. The two pills. Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful," John said as they approached him.

"Good shot," Sherlock said, the closest thing to warmth she'd seen on him.

"Yes, must've been. Through that window." John danced around it.

"We'll you'd know. You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't think you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

With this, Leanna stepped forward and pulled John into an embrace.

"Thank you," she said as he hugged her back, a little delayed. She pulled away. "Are you okay?" She asked him.

"Yes, of course I'm okay."

"You did just kill a man," Sherlock added.

"Yes." His tone was exceptionally casual, and she held his gaze until she was sure of the truth. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No he wasn't really, was he?" Sherlock said.

"And a bloody awful cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here," Leanna commented. They all laughed.

"You were gonna take that bloody pill, weren't you?" John asked with false reprimand.

"Course I wasn't."

"What are you talking about?" Leanna asked. "You had it halfway in your mouth!"

They walked off, discussing dinner, and Leanna hoped she wouldn't be banished to a separate table again.

"Sherlock, that's him."

A few paces away, John pointed out car that pulled up, and the man from earlier who had abducted them stepped out.

"That's the man I was talking to you about."

"I know exactly who that is. What are you doing here?" he asked the man in the expensive suit and comb over.

"I'm concerned about you."

"I've been hearing about your concern."

Leanna considered going back for the blanket, because it seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Did it ever occur to you that we belong on the same side?" the well-groomed man crooned to the detective.

"Oddly enough, no."

"This feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy."

_What?_ Leanna looked between the two men. _No way._

_"I_ upset her? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"Wait... Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John looked as dumbfounded as Leanna felt.

"Mother. Our Mother. This is our brother, Mycroft," Sherlock reluctantly introduced.

"Your _brother_? Oh, that's too funny." Leanna tried not to laugh on the outside.

"So he's not... I don't know, a criminal mastermind?" John asked hesitantly.

"Close enough," Sherlock said.

"For goodness sake, I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government. When he's not too busy being the British secret service, or the CIA on a freelance basis."

Leanna could no longer contain the laughter, and both brothers glared at her. That didn't stop her.

"So, this feud is actually childish?" She asked when her laughter permitted her.

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes bid him farewell and grabbed Leanna by the arm, dragging her off, still laughing.

"So, dim sum? I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't," John said in disbelief

"Fine, then. What's mine?" she asked him.

"That there is another murder in your immediate future, if you can't stop laughing."

"That's not fair! That's just going to make me laugh harder!"

They walked through London, headed back to Baker Street for dinner, and Leanna's opinion of the city was beginning to change. As the three new friends jay-walked across the streets, Leanna still clinging to Sherlock's arm, she thought that she just might be able to get used to this.

<><<>><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this story was a 'why the hell not' kind of situation. It was one of my first projects which I began several years ago, so it's definitely not one of my better ones. But hey, we all start somewhere, right?  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it regardless. Thanks for sticking with it!  
> Also available now is part two, The Blind Banker! Check it out if you will at https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944915/chapters/68437853  
> ~ J <3


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